


Penance

by maryagrawatson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Gen, Hurt Sherlock, POV Sally, Reichenbach-Related, Retirementlock, Sally Donovan & Sherlock Holmes Friendship, Sherlock Whump, Sussex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-03-09 05:33:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3238184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maryagrawatson/pseuds/maryagrawatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sally Donovan hated a man so much she destroyed many lives with unfounded accusations. Years later, she finds penance in an unexpected place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Search

**Author's Note:**

> A post series three story, canon compliant to the end of HLV, that assumes that Sherlock was allowed to remain in London after dealing with the Moriarty threat once and for all. It is set about a year after the tarmac scene. Not Brit-picked.

Greg calls me. His voice sounds strange, like he's trying to hold his emotions in check and about to fail. He doesn't waste time with pleasantries. Sherlock -- I used to call him The Freak, but that was before I killed him and ruined many people's lives and almost my own career. Now, he's Sherlock, not that I've called him that to his face since I haven't seen him, except in passing, in the years since he returned from the dead.  
  
He went missing four days ago. His friend John Watson reported it almost immediately, as Sherlock was late to mind Watson and his wife's daughter for their weekly date night. Such behaviour was out of character for this new version of Sherlock Holmes I had never met.  
  
Sherlock's brother received a video early the next morning of his brother tied to a chair, slumped over and bloodied. Cliched, really. Mr. Holmes -- that's how I think of the brother, an intimidating civil servant too proper seeming not to be caught up in messes beyond imagining. Mr. Holmes couldn't give details other than that this kidnapping was to exert pressure on him, that it had nothing to do with anything Sherlock was involved in.  
  
Another video came every twelve hours thereafter, each showing Sherlock in worse shape. The final video was of a sign that said that Sherlock had outlived his usefulness and the general vicinity of where Mr. Holmes could recover his brother. It was a large area, full of warehouses, many abandoned, and alleys replete with overflowing skips.  
  
The Metropolitan Police had been called in to help with the search. And that's where I come in, with Greg asking me to help find Sherlock Holmes' body.  
  
I killed him once, so I suppose it is right that the next time our paths cross, it is to bring the dead man back to his family.  
  
It is a large team that is assembled at the rendez-vous from which the recovery operation will be managed. Everyone is dressed to get dirty. Even Mr. Holmes is in jeans and a limp button down. Dark circles under his eyes and several days of stubble on his chin betray how personal this is for him. After all, he's the kind of man who has negotiated peace treaties and hostage negotiations, assassination attempts and spy missions without ever wrinkling his suit. Or so I've heard.  
  
Greg doesn't look much better. I never understood his special bond with Sherlock because I don't believe that special abilities give you the right to belittle others. But I shouldn't speak ill of the dead.  
  
I'm assigned a section of the grid, the corners of which I program into a hand held sat nav unit, and I begin my search. It is daylight, the first bright day that London has seen in nearly a month. What a waste. And yet, what a gift to have so many fewer shadows in which a body can be hidden from sight.  
  
My first targets are a series of small sheds full of rat droppings and empty beer bottles. There is evidence of life in sleeping bags and unopened tins of beans. It is no longer difficult to imagine the kinds of life decisions that lead one to seeking shelter in such a place. I know that I was not far from it, that rainy November when I laid to waste the lives of so many good people.  
  
I am going to find him. I know it in my gut. This will be my penance.  
  
The search of the sheds yields nothing of value. Next, I enter an alley full of skips and feel something tighten within me. I gingerly open the first one and it is thankfully, blessedly, empty.  
  
The second one is overflowing with black and orange bin bags. I am not tall, but I can reach a few and pull them out. They are heavy and I know that I will have to open them to look for body parts once I have emptied the skip. Or maybe not. When I pull myself to the top of the skip and balance on the edge, I almost fall back to the ground at the sight of pale buttocks between two black bags.  
  
My gut roils as I ease myself down and push more bags out of the way, not caring that I am disturbing the scene. I need to know if he is intact.  
  
In the end, there is a whole man curled up there among the rubbish, or a vaguely man-shaped lump that had once held a brilliant mind. As I radio to Greg that I found him, I notice that his hands and feet have been crushed. Those hands with impossibly long fingers that I'm told could make a violin sing. Those feet that allowed him to bounce about with endless energy. There is so much blood, so much bruising, so much evidence of the worst abuse, no torture, I have ever encountered in my career. It is all I can do not to vomit.  
  
A noise like a mewling kitten takes my mind off my nausea. It is coming from the battered form at my feet.  
"Sherlock?" I say, my voice cracking.  
The form moans and cries out. The clicking of a fractured jaw is shatteringly loud.  
  
I am on my radio, not certain of what I am blathering, that he's alive, that I need an ambulance. Oh, God, is it a mercy that he has survived this long?  
  
I sink down next to him in the rubbish and put a hand on a small patch of clear skin on his upper back. Sherlock flinches at the touch and whimpers.  
  
"Ssh, it's over," I croon in what I hope is a soothing tone. He begins to cry. I rub the patch of skin gently; it is all I know to do to comfort him. He does not recoil this time and I think that maybe he even pushes back against my hand. "It's over," I repeat. "You're safe now." I stroke his blood matted hair and like a mantra, I say it again. "You're safe. You're safe..."  
  
He sobs.  
  



	2. Updates

Hours later, I am sitting numbly in a hard chair under the flickering fluorescent lights of a hospital waiting room. Why do these places never have decent seating? I reek of rubbish and Sherlock's blood has made my clothes cling uncomfortably to me. They crack at every movement. I have been unable to go home, choosing to wait here with Greg and Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson. I know it is not my place, so I sit apart from them.  
  
"Coffee?"  
  
I lift my head slowly and find that my vision is blurry. I blink and Greg slowly comes into focus. He looks the way I feel, grey faced and exhausted. I take the coffee, but have no intention of drinking it. The warmth is comforting in my hands.  
  
"He survived the first set of surgeries. We won't know anything else for at least a day. Go home."  
  
Over the next several days, I try to live my life normally between Greg's twice daily report that Sherlock is still alive. I have no right to details and none are offered. I imagine the countless surgeries he will need to repair internal injuries and his fractures. How much of him would be left if he survives? The sight of his crushed extremities haunt my dreams. Sometimes I wake up at night because I thought I heard his cries.  
  
It is a full twenty days since my discovery in the skip that I let Greg into my office.  
"I've got permission to give you an update on Sherlock."  
"Okay. Thank you." Can he hear how hard my heart is beating?  
  
"He's out of danger and there's no brain damage." I let out a breath I hadn't realised I was holding. "But that's pretty much the only good news at this point. He lost all but four toes between both feet and both tibias are fractured. He's going to be lame. So far, they're hopeful that he'll be able to walk short distances, around the flat and such, but otherwise he'll be best to use a wheelchair."  
  
I feel tears well up as Greg continues. "He's lost three fingers of the right hand and the thumb and index finger on the left. The hands will likely be usable, but stiff."  
"Violin?" I manage to choke out.  
Greg shakes his head. "Much too soon to tell, but there's a chance he'll be able to play to some degree."  
  
"Go on," I urge him. I don't really want to hear more of this catalogue of horrors, but I need to get to the end of it.  
"The jaw was broken cleanly and will heal well, as will his right cheekbone and eye socket. He's got some scarring on his face, but I think that he'll look fine over time if the improvements in the last weeks are any indication. All the scarring is from surgery and the plastic surgeon did a really good job on the sutures. Finally, even though he was stripped, there is absolutely no evidence of sexual abuse or trauma."  
  
The relief I feel at this is immense. The man had suffered enough indignities to add molestation and even rape to them.  
  
"And how is he?" I ask. "I mean, I assume he's awake?"  
Greg nods. "He is awake and more lucid that I would have thought with all the pain meds he's on. Unfortunately, it means nightmares and night terrors, anger, depression, anxiety. He's working through the psychological stuff with a therapist. He -- he was tortured during his two years away and --"  
"What?!" This revelation saps the energy from me and I find myself slumping bonelessly in my chair.  
"Yeah. But his brother says it was nothing like this, was done to cause the maximum amount of pain with the least amount of damage. Sherlock sorted all that out quickly, but now residual effects from that are coming up on top of this attack. We don't know how much of our Sherlock is going to come out this. He's in a bad way."  
"Do you think I could visit him at some point? I -- I've never seen anyone that badly beaten before who lived and I -- I need to see him for myself."  
"I'll ask," Greg says generously, "But it'll probably be in a few weeks, if at all."  
  
That's fair. "Thanks, Greg. Give my thanks to Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes for allowing me an update. And thank you for asking for it on my behalf."  
Greg nods. "Of course. How are you doing?"  
"Nightmares," I answer honestly "Lots of nightmares. He just -- I've never seen anything like it in my life and I've seen some bad things. I can still hear him crying. It was the most wretched thing I've ever seen. I just hope he doesn't remember any of it."  
"Actually, he does. He's the only one who ultimately gave permission for you to get an update."  
"Oh!"  
"That doesn't mean he'll want to see you, but let's give it time."


	3. The Visit

It's almost eight weeks later before Greg calls me with another substantial Sherlock update.  
"He's doing much better, all fractures healed. He was started on soft solid foods just over a week ago and is starting to eat normally again. He is also starting to regain some mobility and independence in getting around. His emotional state has stabilized, too. He's resilient, I'll give him that."  
"Thank you."  
"You can go see him."  
"Really?"  
"Yeah. I told Sherlock why you wanted to visited and he agreed, and immediately, might I add. Didn't even think about it."  
"That's unexpected."  
"I was surprised, too."  
"All right. I'll go see him tomorrow. Thanks, Greg."  
  
The following afternoon, I stand outside the door to Sherlock's hospital room, chewing on my bottom lip. The door is open and I can see him curled up in bed, facing the window. I finally rap lightly on the door frame and Sherlock rolls over slowly.  
  
He is a man again, not a broken lump of flesh.  
  
"Greg said this would be okay..." My voice sounds small even to me.  
  
Sherlock nods as he brings his bed to a sitting position. "Have a seat if you want." His voice is soft, but strong.  
"Okay. Thanks." I come into the room and lift a hand holding a large covered cup with a straw. "It's a chocolate milkshake. I forgot to ask what I could bring and..." I stop when I see Sherlock's eyes brighten and his hands reach out for the cup. Even with missing fingers, they look much better than expected, the joints barely deformed, the stumps healed well.  
  
I pass the cup over and make sure he has a good grip between both palms before letting go.  
He takes a pull and sighs happily. "Very thoughtful. Thank you." He takes a few more sips, humming contentedly, and I commit the sound to memory, begging it to record over the whimpers I heard nearly three months before.  
  
His face, while very thin, is as beautiful as ever. Yes, beautiful. I can see faint pale pink scars running down the right side, but they are delicate and will fade to nearly match his pale complexion. His pale eyes are bright and clear and he appears to have all his teeth.  
"Greg says you're eating solid food again?"  
"Yes. I'm healing well. I should be out by the end of next month."  
"Oh, good!"  
"I'll need some more PT, of course, but I should be able to do that as an outpatient."  
"Did he tell you why I needed to see you?"  
"Yes."  
"No matter anything I've said to you in the past, you didn't deserve this and I would never have wished it on you." I choke up.  
"I know, Sally. And I wanted to thank you."  
"Thank me?"  
"For the comfort when you found me."  
"I hoped you wouldn't remember that."  
"Why not, when it was the only thing worth remembering?"  
  
What had he gone through, in all those years since the Fall, to become so generous?  
  
I finally take his invitation to sit. "This is a nice room." It is small, but painted a cheery yellow and overlooks the hospital grounds.  
"I appreciate the view."  
"Are you able to get around?" I am unable to ignore the wheelchair by the door.  
"Somewhat. I can walk to the toilet, but I need a wheelchair to go any further. I am mobile with the chair, though. I can go outside or down to the café on my own."  
  
That is much better progress than Greg had let on.  
  
"What are you going to do at home? I mean, I assume you're still at Baker Street?"  
"I am. I'll be okay to go up and down the stairs, with help at first, and then eventually on my own. The flat is on one level, so I'll have no trouble once I'm upstairs."  
"Good. Your hands look better than I expected."  
"They are. I'll never be able to do fine work again, but I might eventually be able to play the violin again, somewhat, which is most important to me."  
"Oh, I'm glad for you!"  
  
Sherlock takes the last few sips of his milkshake. "Care to go for a walk, if you have time? I like to go out in the afternoon."  
  
I eagerly accept.  
  
I watch as Sherlock pulls himself to a sitting position and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. There is a button down cardigan at the foot of the bed and he shrugs it on, using hook and loop closures to secure it. He slowly slides off the bed, bracing himself with one hand until he finds his footing, then shuffles more than walks across the room to his wheelchair. After checking that the brakes are on, he steadies himself with one hand so that he can slip into his shoes before taking a seat. He unapplies the brakes and rolls himself to the door. "Follow me." I smile. That is the Sherlock Holmes I remember well.  
  
Sherlock leads me down the hall to the elevator. When were emerge a few flights below, he guides me through the corridors to the exterior courtyard. He brings us to a bench, applies the brakes, and manoeuvres himself onto the bench, tipping his face up into the sun and inhaling deeply.  
  
"How long have you been able to do this, come outside on your own, I mean?" I ask  
"About a week. It's exhausting, to be honest. I'll be glad for a push to get back. But it's a better sleep aid than medication."  
  
He puts a hand into the pocket of his cardigan and fumbles for a bit before pulling out his wallet. "The café is over there," he points, using his entire right hand because he lacks index fingers. "I'd like to buy us a coffee. They have those pod machines so the coffee's actually palatable."  
I laugh and give him the minute he needs to extract a five pound note. "Still black with two sugars?" I query.  
"Yes," Sherlock replies, his surprise evident.  
"Anything else?"  
"No, thank you. I'm stuffed from the milkshake."  
"I'll be right back."  
  
As I walk away, he calls out, "Please bring me a straw." I wave to show I heard.  
  
We sit outside, sipping coffee and chatting, for nearly an hour before Sherlock says that it is time to go in. He is getting cold.  
  
He moves back into the wheelchair on his own, but let's me push him back to the room. There, he asks me if I can wait while he uses the toilet so I can help him back into bed. I struggle to reconcile how much he has changed from an arrogant prick to a man not only able to ask for help, but willing to accept this help graciously.  
  
He takes my arm when he comes out the loo and I guide him slowly to his bed where he sits and toes off his shoes. I take them and put them back next to the wheelchair so he can get at them easily the next time he leaves the room. His fingers tremble as they pluck at the cardigan, so I help him peel off the garment and then he lies back, allowing me pull the blankets over him.  
  
"Thank you," he whispers. "Probably not what you were hoping to do today."  
"Thank you for accepting my help."  
"Sally, I forgave you a long time ago."  
I let out a deep breath and reach out to do something impossibly bold.  
  
He falls asleep as I stroke his hair.


	4. Baker Street

I don't visit Sherlock in hospital again. My case load is full and he has a full roster of friends and family keeping him busy. Greg occasionally gives me a small update. Five weeks after my visit, I learn that Sherlock has been discharged and is finishing his recovery at home.  
  
I need to see him one more time, at home, surrounded by the clutter that makes his flat feel so homey, to fully push the memory of him in that skip to the furthest recesses of my mind. Greg gives me his number and it is with trepidation that I dial the digits late one morning.  
  
Sherlock answers quickly and sounds bright and alert, much stronger than he did in hospital. I'm welcome to visit early Thursday afternoon, three days from now, and if I bring falafel sandwiches (extra turnip for him), he'll spring for ice cream while we take a walk through Regent's Park. It feels as though he was expecting my call and made plans for us. Perhaps he also feels this bond thrumming between us since that day I found him.  
  
Thursday, I stand in front of his Baker Street flat. From the ground floor entrance, there is evidence that the man who inhabits these rooms is no longer fully able bodied. Rather than the two steps leading up to the front door, there is a ramp. The door can now be opened automatically and there is a sleek motorized wheelchair tucked away in a corner in front of the entrance to the A flat. The two flights of stairs to the first floor are now flanked by sturdy grab bars. But at first glance, the flat itself appears unchanged.  
  
Sherlock is sitting in his armchair dressed as I've always known him in a smart suit, his hair back to its normal length and styled perfectly. He confesses that he's usually in jogging bottoms or even pajamas, that he dressed especially because we will be heading out.  
  
The table is set for lunch and he has even brewed tea. He walks about the flat much more smoothly than the last time I saw him and his hands seem more flexible. The human body never ceases to amaze me in its ability to heal and to adapt if the mind will let it.  
  
After we eat, we head downstairs. He manages the stairs surprisingly well, gripping the rail before bringing down one foot, then the next. He steadies himself and then tackles the next step. It takes ten minutes to get down. He says it's only five to get up. It helps that his torturers left his knees intact.  
  
It is difficult to watch him get into the wheelchair, but I sense no resentment of it from him. "I can just barely walk to the corner shop and back to get a paper or milk. With this chair, nearly all of London is mine again. I hope that there will come a time when I don't need it, but for now, I'm grateful for the independence it gives me."  
  
We go to Regent's Park for an hour. We have ice cream, vanilla for him, cherry for me, big cones that drip down our chins. As we swipe at each other with serviettes, laughing, I realise how comfortable I am with him. Whatever was in our past has been resolved. I know a measure of peace for the first time in years.  
  
When we return to Baker Street, he does not invite me in, so we say our goodbyes on the kerb. "Do you still take cases?" I ask him. He nods. "Can I call on you if I need help, then?"  
"Please do," he replies.  
  
We both know that the cases I work on now, white collar fraud and such, do not merit the attention of the world's only consulting detective, but the point is made. I once again have some small role to play in Sherlock Holmes' life.  
  



	5. Epilogue

I see Sherlock every few months. The ten years since his abduction have been kind to him and he has regained a good measure of physical strength and mobility. He still uses the wheelchair for long distances, but the odd time we meet at Regent's Park for a coffee, he walks. The most tangible evidence of the stress his body has been through is a head gone completely grey before fifty.  
  
My career has recovered somewhat and I am working homicide again, not in charge of cases, but at least doing important work. I occasionally sneak files to Sherlock for consultation. His great mind still works perfectly, his deductive reasoning sound and impressive.  
  
Sherlock still considers Baker Street home, but he's rarely there, preferring to spend his days in Sussex at his girlfriend's cottage. Girlfriend, really. Janine is a feisty Irish woman he clearly adores. I won't be surprised when he announces that he is retiring permanently to Sussex to mind their bees.  
  
He and Janine host a party at Baker Street late one February, for no particular reason than to bring a little joy into an especially grey late winter. The flat is full to bursting with his friends and family.  
  
Among them are John Watson, his wife, and their three daughters, who call Sherlock uncle. He dotes on them.  
  
Sherlock's parents have also come. I've met them a few times and the stark contrast their congeniality provides to their sons' awkwardness in social situations always amuses me. They are the Watson children's surrogate grandparents.  
  
There is also Sherlock's landlady, Mrs. Hudson, saucy as ever even in her advanced age, and she's come up with her on again, off again beau who runs the restaurant downstairs.  
  
Mycroft, as Mr. Holmes now insists I call him, is unchanging in a three-piece suit and with his trusty umbrella at hand. Unlike his brother, he has not found a companion. However, since the abduction, his acerbic comments about Sherlock's need for companionship have diminished greatly and I even catch him laughing with Janine over something silly Sherlock did.  
  
Greg and the pathologist Molly Hooper finally came together three years ago after so many wasted years and have brought their newly adopted seven year old son, who instantly becomes best friends with the Watson children. He's also glad to call Sherlock uncle.  
  
There is another man present at the gathering, one with whom I orchestrated Sherlock's downfall all those years ago, one I once cared about very much, but haven't seen in years. He and Sherlock made their amends much, much sooner than it happened with me, although they remained more acquaintances than friends. Philip once worked in forensics for the Met, but his career never recovered. I'm not sure what he does now, but he looks happy. I suspect Sherlock invited us so that we can reconnect. I'll think about it.  
  
It is extraordinary to witness the kind of man Sherlock has grown into in his middle age. Gone is the brash, arrogant, infuriating, and insecure man-boy I knew so many years ago. Rather than leave him bitter, the ordeals he has endured have mellowed him out, giving him confidence in what he can sustain, and providing him with a willingness to risk the closeness of true friendship and even love.  
  
I believe I have made my penance for my role in making him into the truly great man he is today.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story started as a bunch of random unrelated snippets that came together once I rewrote them in Sally Donovan's voice to present a Sherlock Holmes whose personality is closer to Conan Doyle's Holmes and heading towards a peaceful retirement in Sussex. I indulged my love of the Sherlock/Janine pairing because the possibility of their coming together in Sussex later in life is something that was cut from the HLV script (as per the HLV commentary).


End file.
